


grace, and;

by drmsqnc



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, pre-lotr canon, probably, thandruil is p crazy but not tht crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 17:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drmsqnc/pseuds/drmsqnc
Summary: mercy more.





	grace, and;

Dawn warned none. It was there on the back of your neck, pocketed warm between your fingers. Daylight split through the shutters of the leaves; shine increasingly heavied with the drag of time.   
  
This forest was different.  
  
You darted to and fro redwood, melting into the long shadows they cast. The trees sounded like hushed rumours on a summer day, freshly buzzed and lilting. Vines and thistles and greenery sang welcome, but the animal life, prone to hover, was unnaturally avoidant.   
  
_You should not be here_ , whispered the soil.

Your rapid ascent faltered, stopped to crouch you stilted over a raised root. The skin of an apricot blemished: bruised, weeping under the hard press of your grasp. Frigid, trembling fingers dug into the underside of the fruit to tear the soft belly apart straight down the middle.

“Please,” you touched it to your mouth. “Come home.”

Above, the crows went quiet.

You swallowed around the sharp taste and craned your head, catching the silhouettes of the birds flitting through the squares of sun. They were leaving, you thought. Without you. You rested your face in your hands, bowed, aching. If you did not hurry, you would be left behind. (He would leave you behind. He had already left you behind.) Your palms smelled like ripe pulp.

Behind you, the air displaced faintly.

Your eyes widened.

_THWISH._

Your ankles screamed in protest as they twisted and  _pushed_  to the side, body too late to catch up with your sudden movement. Tree bark shattered violently where you had just stood.

A breath punched through your teeth–half a millisecond of stillness–then you were moving: again,  _again,_  without reprieve. Three arrows pierced the earth just a hair’s edge away from your heel. The world swarmed.

“Wait!” You barked. You crouched low behind dead logs, scanning the arrows frantically before snapping your eyes up.

Amongst the slopes and ebony patches of the trees, a man stood atop the highest branch. He watched you from his perch, face half concealed from the white-fire waterfall cascading past his peaked ears, over his shoulders–a single pale eye glowing beneath.

_(Elf.)_

“Trespasser.” His voice was a pulling thing, a low wisp everywhere and nowhere at once. Not once did his stance slacken. It stretched just as taut as the arrow he held firm drawn back on your figure. “These are not your woods.”

Your heartbeat lodged inside your throat.

_Breathe._

You flexed your hands. Courage bore a savage grin as you straightened, drawing upon all of your strength. “I am merely travelling by.”

His head tilted owlishly to the side, considering. Your fingers twitched at your side. By your feet, a rabbit stilled and scampered quickly into its burrow at the commotion. Every cell within you was bound, hummed with potential energy as you calculated your chances.

You needed to run.

His mouth twisted.

“Be still.”

In one smooth motion, he sprung from the tree, landing impossibly effortless on the ground from the height. You startled back at the sudden proximity. He was nearer now, a pace or two infront, and you saw him far more clearly in the light.

(An elf. This was an elf.)

Dread ran hot on your skin.

He stepped forward in an almost glide above the earth. It was the way he moved, the complete absence of sound; that perfectly honed navigation of his surroundings–as though the entire ecosystem was an extra limb, as though he knew every creature, every stone, every divot as extensively as the immortal blood in his own veins. Intense unease settled in your stomach.

A long moment, and then, quietly, holding your stare, he spoke, “what are you searching for?”

You,

( You are nine years old, and winter has devoured your village whole.

Rough hands thread through your hair, scraping down your scalp. Your face is stung cold, flushed and stinging, but behind, your mother is a furnace. The heat of her chest seeps into your back, warm and steady.

 _Take care never to look into elvhen eyes, my child,_  she whispers, a gentle brush of sound on the crown of your scalp.  _They are starlight._

 _You will burn._  )

You averted your gaze. 

“Searching?”

The angles of his face were too young, too disarming for the bottomless age you saw within his eyes. Said eyes narrowed, feline and bright lined.

“Yes.  _Searching._ ” Something almost like disappointment crossed his features. “The signs are clear, if you know how to look for them. No human would willingly come to this territory. Speak.”

Fear deserted you all at once, frustration surging in its place at the reminder of his words. Searching. Yes.

Yes, you were  _searching_  and  _you did not have time_  for _this._

“I do not think,” you bared your teeth, drawing up to full height, “that it is any of your business,  _elf_.”

He frowned.

Then, against any of your expectations, he only sighed.

“You are hurting,” his expression softened. “I am sorry. However you must understand–these are not peaceful times. Death is everywhere.”

Death?

At your obvious confusion, a sad smile dangled at the corner of his lips. “Not now, perhaps.  Not for some time in fact–though soon enough. Can’t you see it?” He stared glassy into the horizon. “Can’t you hear her air changing? Middle earth is preparing for war.”

You swallowed. You could  _feel_  the honesty in him.

It clicked something electric between the two of you, turned the situation on its stomach. A current; a longing. Silent wonder–everything soft and cold and holy–but slashed maroon underneath, desire rushing and seceding and mercilessly commanding your attention. It pulled you to inch closer. You  _wanted_.

(But.)

You closed your eyes.

“My little brother has disappeared.”

(But.)

“He is only a child,” you continued. “Untrained. Innocent. I followed his trail this far but–” _I cannot track him for much longer, the rains have cleaned his path, why didn’t he talk to me, there are no signs of kidnapping, he left empty handed, I do not know if he is still alive, I do not know if he is still alive_  “–I have not found him yet.”

“I see.”

Your eyes snapped open at the clipped words, infuriated, only to see him staring at his hands in deep thought.

“I–” he began. “I–I am–”

His voice broke, flowed into a stream of music. Your mouth went dry.

(And music it was, the language, for it clasped your ears tight and made your heart sing.)

“–sorry. I am sorry.” His voice sounded strained. “Apologies. What I wish to share does not translate well in Common.”

He looked away respectfully as you roughly swiped at your wet cheeks. While you collected yourself, he took the opportunity to retrieve his arrows.

You watched him through your fingers as he yanked the arrow that had nearly ended your life from the splintered tree, slipping it back in its quiver. It had been lodged all the way to the edge of the shaft. For a moment, you are dumbstruck at the incomprehensible display of strength.

Right.

 _Soon enough_ , he had prophesied earlier. The words had instilled fear deep in your soul, but you had forgotten just who, just  _what_ you were talking to. For a creature whose life span was eternal, what exactly was his sense of time?

He spoke, interrupting your thoughts. “Return here later tonight. I cannot aid you any sooner. I am,” his voice bittered, “ _expected._ ”

You barely heard his last train of thought. “Wait. Aid?”

“Yes,” he dipped his head. “I am extending my service, if you will accept it.”

The pause stretched. Your mouth opened and closed.

“ _Why_?”

He smiled. “Are you rejecting my offer?”

“No I–”

“–have yet to give me your name.”

Your jaw shut in annoyance. His easy smile deepened, coy and bright.

Hesitantly, you relented.

“And you are?”

“Legolas.”

“Legolas,” you repeated, licking your lips. His eyes followed the action.

“Something is rising, (Name),” he murmured. “A curse. A bringer of death. An all-seeing eye presenting the foreboding of the dark.”  

He flickered, gone.

“If you ever see another elf, fly far from here and do not come back.”

Your head snapped back, breathless, to meet incandescent jade.

“We were instructed to kill on sight.”


End file.
